So This is Midwinter
by lionesseyes13
Summary: While on a desert campaign during King Jasson's reign, Prince Roald and Gareth remind each other of the joy and peace Midwinter is all about. A oneshot. Friendship, not slash.


So This is Midwinter

"So Midwinter begins tonight at midnight," murmured Prince Roald, the only son (and an inadequate one, according to his father, without the bloodlust suitable for one of his royal lineage) of King Jasson the Conqueror. He sat outside his tent on a blanket of sand in the Southern desert, trying to hope for the miracle of a single snowflake and not to think of all the blood that had probably been spilled on every grain of sand he was touching throughout all the long centuries since the world's creation.

Turning his head to gaze at his childhood friend, Gareth of Naxen, who had also been dragged into this never-ending war with the Bazhir by a king who didn't care how many of the realm's precious sons were pierced by enemy spears and arrows as long as a few more grains of golden sand were added to his already expansive kingdom, Roald asked dully, "Is there any more miserable place to spend Midwinter than in the middle of an army camp in a strange land, Gar?"

"You need to be filled with some Midwinter cheer, Prince of Pouting." As intolerant of whining as ever, Gareth elbowed Roald in the ribs. "Remember that, once we've conquered the desert, it won't be a strange land. Besides, Midwinter is supposed to be about celebrating the change and hope of a new year, so it is fitting that we are welcoming in the new year in a strange land."

"But what hope of change is there for us?" demanded Roald, waving a hand at the tents filled with soldiers preparing to spend another holiday away from their wives and children. "Here we are, another year over, a new one about to begin, and what have we learned? What are we going to do differently this year so that we don't have to be sitting in an army camp instead of around a fire with our families with eggnog and cider in our hands?"

"I think that your father plans to win more battles," Gareth replied delicately, because he was a much more careful individual after losing his finger in a skirmish with the tribesmen four months ago. The pride and confidence that had characterized him throughout their years as pages and squires had been shorn as surely as his limb had.

"So we can fight more wars." Roald snorted, all bitterness. "That's how my father works for peace in a world torn apart by violence."

"He did try to make this Midwinter a peaceful one for you," Gareth reminded him. "You were in the command tent with me when the Bazhir messenger came back with the answer to his offer for a week long truce in honor of the holiday. You heard the courier say that the only peace they are interested in is one in which we leave the desert forever."

"And my father will never stop trying to acquire new lands any time before he breathes his last." Roald sighed, watching the mist his exhale formed and wishing that the fog he created would turn into a thick snow, capable of covering all the crimson blood spilled in this horrible desert in a bed of pure white. "He can no more give me the gift of peace than he can make it snow tonight."

"Snow would be nice." Gareth smiled, looking, in the faint glow of the lantern placed on the sand between them, like a child dreaming of the joys to be had during the first snowfall of the year. "Then we could have a snowball fight, and everyone would fall down laughing and get up again, instead of falling down with a cry never to move again."

"Or we could skate on an oasis," said Roald, picking up a fistful of sand and pretending it felt cold and wet rather than hot and dry against his fingers. "We could feel like we were gliding away from here in a cloud of calm whiteness."

"Snow would be the best present of all." As he spoke, Gareth dug through his pockets until he had pulled out a small box wrapped in bright green paper that gleamed in the light cast by the lantern. Placing it gently in Roald's palm, he added, "Speaking of gifts, Lianne sent this in her last package to me. She wants me to give it to you. I can only imagine how nauseatingly sentimental it is."

Eager to see what Lianne—whose voice was the only song that his heart knew, whose existence was all that gave his life meaning, and whose safety was the only thing he would ever fight for—had gotten him, even though all that he wanted—that no more lives would be ripped apart by violence, that no more wars would ever start or continue, that time would heal all wounds, that love would never die, and that right would win without a fight—could never come in a brightly wrapped box, Roald opened the gift more quickly than he had ever opened any present. When he slid the lid off the box, he found himself looking down at two porcelain turtledoves that had somehow survived the bumpy road down to the desert without so much as a crack.

"They're beautiful," whispered Roald, reaching down to stroke the birds. When his fingertips brushed against the cool porcelain, he felt the warmth of Lianne's love for him and knew that this was where the hurt—him—and the healer—met to form all the hope and joy he would ever need. With a pang, he remembered how, last Midwinter, when he hadn't been at war, he and Lianne had strolled through the Royal Forest together and stopped to listen, their breath misting the air and poinsettias blooming on their pale cheeks, to two turtledoves sing on the branch of an evergreen.

Overcome by the fact that, even though countless leagues separated them, Lianne could still find a way to give him what he needed most—a peaceful night—through the chaos and the noise of a life fighting a war he wanted nothing to do with, Roald closed his eyes. When the desert air, cool now that the sun had been down for hours, blew against his face, he could almost imagine snow hitting his cheeks and melting there, instead of sand smacking into his skin and getting stuck in every pore. In the wind, instead of the emptiness of the perpetually barren desert landscape, he imagined that he could the clear voices of carolers singing to welcome the return of Mithros after the longest night of the year.

"I'll have to send her a thank you note," he said, still keeping his eyes shut because he wasn't ready to leave the winter wonderland he had created in his mind. "I guess I should also visit Father's tent and thank him for trying to make a peaceful Midwinter for me. I know that it would cost him a lot to even think about not fighting for a day." Then, finally opening his eyes to fix them upon his companion, he went on without even a trace of resentment coloring his tone, "Father would have preferred having you for a son than me. Every time he looks at me, I can see that he thinks I'm a weakling, because I'm not a warrior like you."

"Your father just doesn't understand you," remarked Gareth, rubbing the skin where once a finger had been. "You want peace at any cost, and he wants to be remembered by history as a conqueror. Like my father, his favorite general, he thinks that if he wins enough battles, he'll be able to live for an eternity, and that he will be seen as a hero for all time if he shows that he can seize every opportunity that comes before him. But just because your father doesn't understand you doesn't mean you'll be a bad king. You wouldn't be born as the crown prince if the gods didn't think that this country needed an interval of peace after your father's era of expansion."

"And what do you want, Gar?" Roald arched an eyebrow, not sure, even after a lifetime of knowing the Naxen heir because of the friendship between their fathers, what the other young man's answer would be. Gareth was a warrior—already known as one of the realm's finest swordsman—who could seem like death personified on the battlefield, but he also was a scholar with a keen mind and a genuine desire to learn all that he could. He was comfortable in a library and on the practice courts. Perhaps even he wouldn't know whether he preferred the hectic ambition of war to the quiet contemplation of a library.

"I want to do my duty." Gareth stopped fiddling with the flesh that had once stretched out into a finger and locked eyes with Roald. "I want to do whatever task I'm given to the best of my abilities. I want to serve bravely, loyally, and without complaint. For duty's sake, I'll be a diplomat or I'll be a warrior, and, as long as I'm serving the needs of the realm, my desires will be met."

"Then, one day, I shall make you my councilor and my champion." Roald smiled, knowing that Tortall would not fall into shambles when he was king so long as there was a clever and faithful Naxen as Prime Minister and King's Champion.

"It's an honor of which I dream not." Gareth bowed his head, offering the traditional modest response to such a promise of advancement.

"Dream of snow, then." Roald could feel his smile widening into his first real beam since he set foot in this awful desert during this wretched war. "If we both dream of snow together, it will be just like when we were children—just like when war was just a game we played with snowballs and our greatest fear was that we were too naughty during the year to get anything but coal as a present."

"I can do better than just dream of snow." There was a mischievous glint that Roald had thought the war had squelched forever shining in Gareth's chestnut eyes as he reached into his pockets again. This time, he drew out a fistful of golden coins and tossed them into the nighttime sky, ablaze with strange constellations, and shouted, "I can make it snow gold. Midwinter luck, Prince Peacemaker."

"Midwinter luck." Roald laughed, as the coins fell around him, brushing against him like snow, like gifts, like kisses, each one beautiful, golden, and a small miracle.


End file.
